


Adoro Te Devote

by sagiow



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: F/M, Foreign Language, Having Faith, Homesickness, Hospital, Quarantine, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23250814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow
Summary: I devoutly adore you, hidden deity,Who are truly hidden beneath these appearances.My whole heart submits to You,And in contemplating You, it surrenders itself completely.
Relationships: Jedediah "Jed" Foster/Mary Phinney
Comments: 12
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/gifts).



> Tumblr prompt: Nurses (yes, this would seem to lend itself to Mercy Street, so sue me!) How about including someone reading a famous book/poem *or* use of a foreign language?
> 
> Oh, middlemarch... by now, you should know better than putting “foreign language” in any prompt you send me. You've been warned.

_“_ _Ut the revelata cernens facie,_

_Visu sim beàtus tuae gloriae. Amen.”_

The captivated audience whispered the last word in unison, not daring to offend God by staying silent, nor the angel that had graced them with her presence and voice tonight by singing over her. But Sister Isabella did not mind: it was one of the few pleasures these times allowed, to be in the small ward with her flock of fellow Catholics, rejoicing in long loved hymns at the end of the day. Yesterday she had chosen _Oh Lord I Am Not Worthy_ , and all had joined her with gusto; the day before, _Panis angelicus,_ and all had listened in silent adoration to her soaring notes. Today, an old favorite had called to her, but after sharing the first verses of _Humbly We Adore Thee_ with her choir, she had been unable to resist adding a few in Thomas Aquinas’s original Latin: for her own profit, yes, as the Gregorian chant sang to her of tall European cathedrals, their Gothic arches lifting them to Heaven, but also to that of the boy in the back, his odd green-grey-brown eyes alight as his lips moved along to the ancient comforting words.

By far and wide her favorite patient, she was ashamed to admit, and only to herself. Of an age with her, or perhaps even younger, he was a pale, lanky boy with brown curls, quarantined to his bed first by a plastered foot, the unfortunate victim of a pointless skirmish that had had no bearing on the overall state of the war, and then to the same typhoid fever epidemic that had roamed their halls these last few months. He had remained silent for most of his stay, uttering only a few “Yes, Sirs” to Dr. Hale’s questions as the surgeon had set his leg, therefore earning him a swift diagnosis of being daft, deaf and quite possibly both. However, from his keen joining of his surprising baritone in the Latin songs, Sister Isabella had then surmised that his only impediment was a very rudimentary understanding of English.

Through a mixture of gestures and slow speech, she had managed to make herself understood, and he had returned the attention eagerly. Over the days, they had established their own language, their own special connection, and it was with tangible affection that he now watched her approach his bed with a certain spring in her step.

“Good evening, Private Flower,” she greeted him, managing to keep the thrill from her voice. “Shall we recite the rosary?” They had done so together over the last week, her _Hail Mary’_ s alternating with his _Je vous salue Marie_ , merging in _Ave Marias_ of differently accented Latin.

For an instant, he fidgeted with the prayer beads in his lap, but finally shook his head. “Can I get you anything, then? A glass of water? Paper to write home?” she mimed along.

At this, he flushed, his gaze shifting down. “I… don’t know write,” he admitted.

“I’ll be glad to do it for you, if you’d like,” she offered, pointing to herself.

“T'ank you, _ma soeur_ , but my family… just French,” he shook his head. “You write French?”

“Oh no, only what little I know from some songs, and the _Notre Père_ you’ve so kindly taught me…” Regretfully, she pondered this, until inspiration struck. “But I think I know someone who might!” With a light touch to his arm, she bade him wait, and half-jogged across the ward to an office, knocking briskly on the door left ajar, and not waiting for a greeting to push it open.

She was surprised to find not only Jedediah Foster but also Mary Phinney in the office; at once, they looked up briskly from the document they had been discussing. How sweet that their chairs would be placed as such! The light from the window was still good, and they had a lamp lit on the middle of the desk, surely such proximity would not have been strictly necessary, but she rejoiced to see it, and that they made no movement to hide it. “Oh, I’m so sorry to interrupt… but Nurse Mary, already at work? You’ve only just returned from Boston!”

“I’m fine, Isabella,” Mary soothed her. “Just some light paperwork to catch up on things.”

“Please do pace yourself, we cannot lose you again. Again, I apologize, but Dr. Foster, your expertise is requested.”

“Of course, whatever for?” he enquired, leaning back in his chair. “A delicate surgery? A psychologic evaluation? A reference on a good vintage to compliment tonight’s repast?”

His obvious satisfaction at his own wit appeared to double when Mary’s lips curled upwards. Isabella could not help but mirror them.

“No; a soldier in need of a French speaker to write him a letter. You lived in Paris, did you not?”

Jed sighed. “Yes, a time both highly formative and regrettable, for many reasons that are probably best left unexplained. Miss Phinney, it appears that duty calls, and I must regretfully postpone our discussion on Miss Dix’s latest recommendations.”

Mary rose along with him. “Oh, that’s quite all right; there isn’t much you could have opposed, anyway.” His narrowed eyes were met with the most open of expressions. “But allow me accompany you, Dr. Foster, perhaps I may be of assistance.”

“With an illiterate Frenchman?” he scoffed. “Why not? You might learn a word or two.”

The look they shared was so loaded that Isabella spun on her heels, eager to leave them to it and return to her patient. “Good news! Dr. Foster can help with your letter!” she announced, pointing to the incoming duo as they came into the ward, a moment later. At the sight of the uniform and insignia, the boy sat up straight, his hand shooting up to his brow in a salute.

“At ease, soldier. What’s your name?” asked Jed.

“Basil Flower, Private, Seven’ Infantry Regiment, Massachusetts,” the boy answered steadily, as if reciting an oft-rehearsed lesson.

“Massachusetts? A compatriot of yours, then, Nurse Phinney!” Mary ignored him, her smile destined only to the younger man, and, clearing his throat, Jed returned his attention to him as well. “ _Alors_ , Private Flower; _que vous est-il arrivé?”_

The soldier blinked, hesitated. “Beg pardon, Capitaine?”

“ _Que vous est-il arrivé?”_ Jed repeated, slower _. « Comment vous êtes-vous blessé? »_

Flower looked at the doctor, at the nurse and nun behind him, at a complete loss. “Sorry, Capitaine… I do not understand.”

 _“Vous parlez bien Français, n’est-ce pas? »_ Jed articulated, one word at the time.

 _« Oui, » replied the boy._ « _Mais… pas vous.”_

At this, a bright peal of laughter erupted. Annoyed, Jed turned to Mary, who still paid him no mind. _“Son accent est affreux, hein? »_ she said to the boy, with a tilt of her head towards Jed, a smirk upon her lips.

Private Flower brightened at once. _« Pas mal, ouin.”_

She laughed once more. _“Quatre ans à Paris pour ça, c’est complètement ridicule. »_

Taking a step forward, she finally acknowledged the flustered doctor, whose bewilderment could be physically felt. “A compatriot indeed, Dr. Foster,” she opined pleasantly, her hands clasped daintily in front of her. “I lived in Little Canada in Manchester, New Hampshire, for many years. Most of my friends and colleagues spoke Canadian French, so you could say… I’ve already learned a word or two.”

“How wonderful!”exclaimed Isabella, and she leaned closer to the soldier. “You will be in good hands, Private. If you’d like, I will come back later; you must teach me more of _J’irai la voir un jour_. It’s so beautiful when you sing it. _Au ciel, au ciel, au ciel…_ ”

“ _Ma joie et mon amour,_ » softly sang the soldier in return, perhaps a tad too solemnly, to Mary’s curiosity.

She had no time to ponder it further as Jed clapped his hands loudly, his face a brighter shade than just moments earlier, and forced a bow to his companions. “It does appear that you have the situation under control, Nurse Phinney. I shall leave you to it, then.”

“Of course, Doctor, I’m sure I shall manage.” He glared at her for an instant more, before hanging his head and chuckling. “God, am I glad typhus hasn’t changed you one bit,” he added as he turned to leave, for only her to hear.

“I’ll see you after,” she whispered back, with the subtlest brush of fingers to his hand, a most effective balm against his wounded ego, and he walked away lightly, as if on clouds, the little nun in tow, both already relishing the promised reunions of the next hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS A CHOOSE-YOUR-OWN ADVENTURE!  
> \- If you want a Phoster fic, well there you have it. You’re done. Thanks for reading!  
> \- If you wanna know more about Basil Flower and aren’t afraid of considerable Canadian French, go to Chapter 2.  
> \- If you wanna know more but would rather have the dubbed version, then Chapter 3 is for you.
> 
> I will go to my grave with the headcannon that Mary speaks better French than Jed. What little he did speak to Lisette in S2 made my ears bleed. This comes from the same brainplace as "Such outward things dwell not in my desires" https://archiveofourown.org/works/16446887; don't fix what ain't broken.
> 
> Summary is from the literal translation of the first verse of Adoro Te Devote, and the lines sung by Isabella are the last from the Latin.  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adoro_te_devote
> 
> I Googled translated everything and it checks out, aside from "Pas mal, ouin" which means "Pretty much, yeah". We have a terrible tendency of speaking in non-negatives. "Pas mal/ pas pire/pas mauvais" mean good, "pas mal pas pire" all together means really good. You wouldn't call someone pretty, you'd say they're not ugly ("pas laid"). I have no idea how non-natives manage this nonsense.


	2. Chapter 2

Pulling a chair closer to the bed, Mary looked intently at the boy, brought back to life with the sonorities of home, and frowned. “Basil Flower, _vraiment_?”

He shrugged sheepishly . “Basile Lafleur, _de Baie St-Paul, dans Charlevoix. Je l’ai changé pour que ça soit plus facile à dire en Anglais._ »

« _Charlevoix est pas mal loin du Massachusetts, Monsieur Lafleur, »_ she said, intrigued. _« Pourquoi vous battre dans cette guerre_? _Ce n’est pas la vôtre_.»

There was a cloud on his expression as he looked at her, visibly debating whether she was worthy of her trust. At last, he took a deep breath. _« On est quatorze chez nous; j’suis l’treizième. Les récoltes ont pas été bonnes, y’avait pas assez de réserves, pas assez de job pour tout le monde. Ça fait qu’y a fallu partir pour l’hiver. Y’en a qui sont allés à Québec, d’autres à Montréal. J’ai des sœurs pis un frère qui sont rentrés en religion, mais moi, j’ai jamais fini ma p’tite école, pis faut savoir écrire pour être curé. Y’a toujours les chantiers, mais... c’est tough, 6 mois dans l’bois. Ça fait que moi pis deux autres de mes frères, on est partis aux États pour travailler dans les manufactures. Mais le temps qu’on arrive, la guerre a pogné, pis on s’est dit que ça serait plus intéressant de s’enrôler, voir du pays, que d’être dans ‘shop à longueur de journée. On pensait pas que ça durerait si long que ça._ _Encore moins qu’on souffrirait quasiment plus qu’à maison… »_

Mary listened to him intently as he described his miserable life as matter-of-factly as Anne Hastings might once have inventoried her shortcomings as Head Nurse. _« Et vos frères, il sont où maintenant? »_

 _« Ovide est resté à Lowell, dans une manufacture; il s’est fiancé avec une fille de la place, il voulait plus partir. »_ He swallowed uneasily. _«Ti-Jean s’est enrôlé avec moi, mais il a mangé une balle dans’ tête à Bull Run. »_

 _«Oh! Quelle horreur!»_ Mary gasped at the graphic image _._ _“Vraiment, toutes mes sympathies. Nous avons un très bon aumônier, Chaplain Hopkins, si vous avez besoin d’en parler.»_

The boy scoffed and shook his head. _“Un Protestant, sûrement? Non merci; tant qu’à ça, je préfère en jaser avec vous, ou encore à Sœur Isabella._ _Elle est… ben d’adon, »_ he added with a shy smile, silently confirming Mary’s earlier suspicions.

 _“Vous aimez le trouble, M. Lafleur,”_ she half-scolded, and dropped the matter; after all, she of all people was in no situation to pass judgement on other people’s affections...Instead, she placed the notepad upon her knee and shook the inkjar. “ _Votre lettre, à qui je l’écris? »_

_« À mes parents, s’il vous plait._ _À Baie-Saint-Paul. »_

Mary nodded and started to write. _« Dites-leur que je vais bien, »_ he instructed her, watching the pen scratch the rough paper. _« Que j’vais peut-être boiter un peu quand j’vais être guéri, pis qu’j’accoterai surement pu Alexis le Trotteur à la course, mais que j’vais être correct. Que j’espère être revenu à temps pour les aider avec les récoltes c’t’été. Que je pense à eux fort et qu’y prennent ma paye pour acheter un cadeau pour la première communion de la p’tite Angélique à Marguerite. Et payer des messes à Ti-Jean, pour m’excuser de ne pas avoir pu le sauver et le ramener à ‘maison, en vie ou non. C’était lui, le quatorzième.»_

She rose her eyes sadly, but his gaze was at the window, to the few late strollers and the merchants closing up their shops, to the lamplighter adjusting his ladder, so she left him to his grief, and returned to her task. Once finished, she read out the letter, and he nodded. _“Merci, Garde Phinney. Si c’est n’est pas trop dérangeant, vous pourriez repasser demain? J’aimerais écrire à Ovide aussi, lui demander comment il trouve ça, la vie de famille au Massachussetts... »_ He did not finish his sentence, struck by a sudden coughing fit.

The all-too-familiar sound sent a shudder through her soul, and she squeezed his shoulder as she rose _._ _« Ça me fera plaisir, Soldat. Mais avant tout, il faut que vous guérissiez; je sais c’est quoi, le typhus, et vous pourriez pas demander meilleur médecin que Dr. Foster. Allez, maintenant, au repos. Je vais dire à Sœur Isabella de repasser demain matin;_ J’irai la voir un jour _peut bien en attendre un, à moins que vous ne teniez réellement à voir Marie, Mère de Dieu, au ciel, plus que notre chère Isabella,_ épouse _de Dieu, ici sur terre, »_ she added ominously.

She never knew if it was the Head Nurse tone, the rigid, almost military posture, the beseeching gaze of a former fellow patient, or the menacing omen of an imminent death or denunciation, but he did not argue. With a last nod and quick expression of gratitude, he curled himself up under the covers, his letter home clutched tightly to his chest, his years so unbearably few and his homesickness so poignant, that Mary could not help but comfortingly caress the brown curls upon the pillow before leaving, to swiftly seek solace from her own solitude in her own unsanctioned liaison, in another dark-haired man’s bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation awaits in the next chapter!
> 
> Basil Flower is the name of the paint colour my daughter chose for her room last year. Its potential always lurked in the dark recesses of my brain, waiting for the right time to spring. I had initially imagined him as the dumbest hippie in the world, but the translation worked too perfectly to pass up on it.  
> Between 20,000 and 40,000 French Canadians fought on the Union Side in the Civil War. Of those, many had previously emigrated to the Northern States for better agricultural and industrial prospects, but others enrolled from what is now Québec and Ontario in search of steady pay. They joined mostly in Michigan and New England. As with many other immigrants, translating names was also a common occurrence to facilitate integration.  
> https://www.erudit.org/fr/livres/culture-francaise-damerique/les-parcours-lhistoire-hommage-a-yves-roby/000617co.pdf
> 
> Alexis Lapointe, or le Trotteur (the trotter), is a figure of Quebec folklore. From the Charlevoix region, he was said to run faster than horses and even trains. His biggest exploit is to have alledgedly beat his father’s ship on the 146km distance between La Malbaie and Bagotville, crossing it in under 12 hours. Some literary license is claimed as he was born in 1860 so would only have been a toddler when this story takes place.


	3. Chapter 3

Pulling a chair closer to the bed, Mary looked intently at the boy, brought back to life with the sonorities of home, and frowned. “Basil Flower, really?”

He shrugged sheepishly . “Basile Lafleur, from Baie St-Paul, in Charlevoix. I changed it so it’d be easier to say in English."

"Charlevoix is quite far from Massachusetts, Monsieur Lafleur," she said, intrigued. "Why fight in this war? It isn’t yours.”

There was a cloud on his expression as he looked at her, visibly debating whether she was worthy of her trust. At last, he took a deep breath. "There’s fourteen of us at home; I’m the thirteenth. The harvest was poor, we didn’t have enough food stored, not enough jobs in town for everyone. So we had to leave for the winter. Some went to Quebec City, some to Montreal. I have sisters and a brother that joined the Church, but I never finished elementary school, and you need to know how to write to be a priest. There’s always the lumber camps but… it’s tough, 6 months in the woods. So me and two of my brothers, we left for the States to work in the manufactures. But by the time we got here, war started, and we told ourselves it’d be more interesting to join, see new places, than work in a shop all day long. We didn’t think it would last so long. Even less that we’d suffer almost more than back home…"

Mary listened to him intently as he described his miserable life as matter-of-factly as Anne Hastings might once have inventoried her shortcomings as Head Nurse. "And your brothers, where are they now?"

"Ovide stayed in Lowell, in a manufacture; he got engaged to a girl from there, he didn’t want to leave anymore." He swallowed uneasily. "Ti-Jean joined the army with me, but he took a bullet to the head at Bull Run."

"Oh! How horrific!" Mary gasped at the graphic image. “Truly, my deepest sympathies. We have an excellent chaplain, Hopkins, if you need to talk about it."

The boy scoffed and shook his head. “A Protestant, surely? No thanks; in that case, I’d rather chat with you… or Sister Isabella. She’s quite…. agreeable," he added with a shy smile, silently confirming Mary’s earlier suspicions.

“You like trouble, Mr. Lafleur,” she half-scolded, and dropped the matter; after all, she of all people was in no situation to pass judgement on other people’s affections...Instead, she placed the notepad upon her knee and shook the inkjar. “Your letter, to whom shall I write it? "

"To my parents, please. In Baie-Saint-Paul."

Mary nodded and started to write. "Tell them I’m doing well," he instructed her, watching the pen scratch the rough paper. "That I might limp a bit once it’ll be healed, and I’ll surely not be able to run as long and fast as Alexis le Trotteur anymore, but I’ll be fine. That I hope to be back in time to help them with the harvest this summer. That I think about them a lot and that they take my pay to buy Marguerite’s little Angélique a nice gift for her first communion. And pay for masses for Ti-Jean, so they can forgive me for not saving him and bringing him home, alive or not. It was him, the fourteenth."

She rose her eyes sadly, but his gaze was at the window, to the few late strollers and the merchants closing up their shops, to the lamplighter adjusting his ladder, so she left him to his grief, and returned to her task. Once finished, she read out the letter, and he nodded. “Thank you, Nurse Phinney. If it’s not too much of a bother, could you come by again tomorrow? I’d like to write to Ovide, to ask him how he finds it, family life in Massachusetts..." He did not finish his sentence, struck by a sudden coughing fit.

The all-too-familiar sound sent a shudder through her soul, and she squeezed his shoulder as she rose _. "_ It’ll be my pleasure. But first and foremost, you must heal; I know what it's like, to have typhus, and you could not ask for a better physician than Dr. Foster. So now, at rest, Soldier. I will tell Sister Isabella to come back tomorrow morning; _J’irai la voir un jour_ can very well wait one day itself, unless you are more intent on seeing Mary, Mother of Christ, in Heaven, than our dear Isabella, _bride_ of Christ, down here on Earth," she added ominously.

She never knew if it was the Head Nurse tone, the rigid, almost military posture, the beseeching gaze of a former fellow patient, or the menacing omen of an imminent death or denunciation, but he did not argue. With a last nod and quick expression of gratitude, he curled himself up under the covers, his letter home clutched tightly to his chest, his years so unbearably few and his homesickness so poignant, that Mary could not help but comfortingly caress the brown curls upon the pillow before leaving, to swiftly seek solace to her own solitude in her own unsanctioned liaison, in another dark-haired man’s bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK I lied, there was a bit more Phoster :P Before you drag me to the town pillory for adultery, Jed's divorced, hold your fire. 
> 
> Translating “ben d’adon” is next to impossible. It means “easy to get along with, helpful, supportive”; in the olden days, it meant you found them quite agreeable in a romantic way. If you use it as a pickup line now, you're definitely going home alone. 
> 
> I kept Basil's same speech patterns as in Québécois, it is willingly odd. We're weird that way.
> 
> I actually sang "J'irai la voir un jour" back in my Catholic Choir Girl Days. That's also a very weird sentence.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-gGza2H_LXU


End file.
